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My third day in Edinburgh, and my stomach groaned ferociously as I stepped out of my cheap hostel across from Ryrie’s on Clifton Terrace. I grimaced as my insides shifted and moaned. Hunger only added to the general malaise I already felt, a result of travelling too far too fast with too little purpose. I kept asking myself why I’d come here, what I was hoping to gain from it — and coming up with no good answers.

I was on the plane with the rest of the pupils who had signed up for this once in a lifetime trip with school. Eight days in Israel over the February half term. I was excited but also nervous – not a fan of flying and not really knowing that many of the children going. I was almost thirteen and this was a major holiday without my family.

The other year my boyfriend, Frankie, and I decided to go on a tour of Japan. He had always wanted to go and I'm generally up for visiting anywhere once. When it came to it, everything worked out well and we were both pleased with our choice. We saw temples, statues, and skyscrapers; tried out karaoke (me), sake (Frankie) and kimonos; went to museums, art galleries and parks. The weekend I recall the best, though, was the part of the trip we were most excited about, as this was when we were to meet Mrs Takahashi.

Mary Shaw told me this story, stressing that despite her age she was not present in the audience. During World War Two a nutritionist was sent from London to help the women of Glasgow make the most of any local food produce. The woman held a presentation in a Glasgow hall that was well attended and among her themes was the making of soup from fish bones. The soup was prepared and after the demonstration, questions were sought. From the audience a woman asked the only question that day – “What happened to the rest of the fish?”

I am a child of Labour’s post-war welfare state. The children who were to have their diet supplemented with calcium from free milk, and vitamins A, B, C and D, contained in free ‘welfare foods’, ensuring our future growth and development. We were to be a healthier, better-nourished generation.

For my parents, who experienced the ‘hungry thirties’, having children of their own who were well nourished was at the forefront of their mind, it was part of their dream for a better society.

Sundays were very different then. In the early Seventies, there were no shops open, no cinemas and apart from attending church for the faithful, a soporific air pervaded the small town where I grew up. Even the dogs didn’t bark. I grew up in Cupar, Fife with my sweet, gentle Mum, my kind, selfless, comedic Dad and my elder sister, who was also my best friend. Back in those days, children actually got bored. No wall-to-wall entertainment in the form of iPads, game consoles and 24 hour kids’ television. Sometimes there was actually nothing to occupy us except our imaginations.

My favourite is poached on Vogel’s toast with butter leaking through to the plate. Nowadays, unless you make them yourself, it can be hard to find eggs poached sans the safety of a silicone or metal cup. I do not poach eggs this way. In part, because it is cheating. In part, because dropping an egg into a pan of simmering water and watching it whirl into shape is exhilarating. But mostly I don’t poach with cups because it makes the texture all wrong.

People look at me strangely: "Are you allergic to them?", "What's not to like?", "These are straight out the garden, you'll love them."

Strawberries were a luxury in our house, only available in the summer, and only served when people came to tea, which wasn’t often. Snowed under by a mountain of sugar and drenched in Nestle’s condensed milk, I loved them. Then, when I was thirteen, I went to The Berries.

When writing about food I don't tend to be overtly political, unless there is something directly important to say that's relevant to the politics of food itself. Sometimes though, food, drink, and the enjoyment of these can be taken over by events that are ‘political’ in the very broadest sense. Events that simply cannot be allowed to pass without comment.